Project Mayhem
by deathbyacid
Summary: "I have come to learn many things from this man before me, but what I've come to realize the most after much time spent with him, is that hate is a synonym for love. Like I said, it's all about perception."
1. Prologue

A/N: This story is written in the style of Chuck Palahniuk, if you don't know who he is, do check out his stuff, he's an awesome writer. For those of you who don't know, this is written in first person, like all of Chuck's works. I know that's not everyone's cup of tea, but do give it a try. :D

No beta, all mistakes are my own. Reviews are as always, greatly appreciated.

* * *

Cologne, some Hugo Boss bullcrap, that's the first thing I notice as he holds a gun to my temple. I don't flinch; I don't try to move away. I'm on a chair, those office types, you know, the one with the wheels. Spin around in it fast enough and you'll vomit out your whole day's worth of food. When you think about it, how an office chair can become some sort of torture device, makes you wonder what other everyday items can be used that way.

I tug at the bindings, my arms tied to each armrest so tight that the circulation cuts off, my wrist numb. All this while all I can think of is how disgusting the cologne smells. The scene before my eyes was breath taking, we're on the highest building in the city, glass panels stretching up dozens of storey high, I'm looking down at a maze of streets and buildings, of people as small as ants maneuvering through.

When I say we, I'm talking about the person holding the gun, Jim. 5 feet 8, black hair, brown eyes – walk past him on the street and you wouldn't take a second look. Like how in the past, you could walk past the assassin of Martin Luther King, Jr. without knowing what crime the person was about to commit, gun tucked snuggly in a black leather bag.

I get a strong whiff of the cologne as Jim leans in close, a hair's length away from my ear, I sniff, my nose itches but I can't do anything about it. Jim's voice comes out as deep and scratchy as gravel, and he says, "You won't die, not really."

I nod and say, "You wouldn't let me."

Somewhere way down below, in the busy streets, people continue walking, unaware, playing with their cell phones and eating snacks they had gotten from the convenience store, talking with their friends, laughing, drinking. Cars zoom past even faster, the drivers don't even notice the buildings in their surroundings, it's just them in a metal box with wheels, the center of their universe.

Right now, Jim is the center of my universe. Jim and his mouth so close to my skin, the horrid fruity smell of cologne and that barrel still pressed up cold. "There are worse ways to die than dying," Jim's voice sounds like he's been screaming for weeks.

"Was this really necessary?" I ask, looking down at my hands, "tying me up."

Jim smirks, places the gun in my lap, and of course I can't get to it so it stays there, dead weight. He walks towards the glass panel, breath so hot that a small circle of mist clouds the cool glass. "I get it," I say, "The point you're trying to make, I get it."

He shakes his head, doesn't glance back at me as he raises his right hand to tap his finger against the window. He thinks I don't understand, but I do. The wave of people below, living their lives on an endless loop – sleep, wake up, go to work, get back home, rinse and repeat. They're never truly living, like zombies, time revolves around them and they're trapped in it, a vicious cycle. Sometimes, it's better off being dead.

Do you ever wish you'd never been born?

Sometimes, death is freedom.

The air conditioning in the office had already been turned off, I wonder, was anyone monitoring this? Despite the lack of man-made cool air, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing. I wonder, does anyone else know what's going to happen?

The building we're in, it's not going to be here for long. This, and five others, all in view of the big glass panels, I could point them out to you, but my hands are tied, quite literally. When Jim's done, all this will be a pile of dust.

Improvised explosive device, that's what the authorities call it. In layman term, that's a homemade bomb. Mix together stuff you can get off the shelf, everyday items, and you'll be able to make one. Makes you wonder what other things you could do with plain everyday items.

You take acetone, your daily run of the mill paint thinner, mix it with hydrogen peroxide, that's hair bleach, if you didn't know. Then cool it to 5 degrees Celsius, and slowly add drops of sulfuric acid – lead-acid batteries, acidic drain cleaner – and you get acetone peroxide, a high explosive ten times as sensitive to friction as nitroglycerin.

I know this because Jim knows this.

But this time, Jim had said, this time it's important, no screwing around. So the buildings have been lined with Semtex. I never asked where he got the explosives from, didn't dare. Military grade, I wonder, if any military personnel are working with Jim on this.

"You don't have to do this," he's still not looking at me, but I can sense him rolling his eyes, "No really, you don't have to."

One hundred and eighty floors up, everything below seems so insignificant. It works both ways, this, rich and poor, powerful and powerless, no one really cares about each other, because why does that matter?

I used to care, you know. Used to be some sort of saint, before I met Jim, I still believed in heroes, in dreams and hope. It depends on how you look at it, you might say that Jim has ruined me, or you might say that he's saved me, either way, what does it matter? I have a gun in my lap, I can't pick it up.

"Call it off," I say. "Don't," I say.

Everything is just a matter of perception, the pros and cons; you're the one that deems it to be. You're the one who makes the decisions; you're the one who tells your brain to separate right from wrong. Life from death.

The first man to walk on the moon, everyone knows his name, and yet no one knows the name of the first man to ever be in space. They're both first, but sometimes, first isn't everything. Sometimes, people just see things differently.

Why not remember the name of the first guy who died while attempting spaceflight? I guess when you fall from the sky at 125mph, all you get after you die is a small black column built in your memorial. A structure so insignificant, that when you ask someone on the streets, "Do you know what's at Komarov?" They'll shrug and move on.

Ten minutes to take off.

"We'll be legends," Jim's voice filled with pride, his work, now almost complete, "You and I, immortals."

To give people something to remember, now that's close to impossible. It's not about doing the right or wrong things, it's not about doing something magnificent or tragic – it's just about doing something and hoping that others will remember. Hoping that people will perceive your deeds as something that's worthy of remembering.

Nine minutes.

I shake my head even though he can't see, twist my arms around, trying to get out of the ropes. "What makes you so sure?" One jerk too hard and the gun falls on the floor, I glance up at Jim but he's still staring into the night sky. I push, "What makes you so sure that this will be worth remembering?"

Go on; ask someone you see on the street about what happened in Sheffield, March 11, 1864. After they give you that "What the fuck are you talking about?" look, ask them about what happened Ukraine, April 26, 1986.

He turns back then, but not as I expect, he doesn't glare at me, doesn't shout, doesn't get ticked off. "Maybe it wouldn't, maybe it would. All I know is, if it doesn't make it into the history books, I'll try again."

September 11, 2001. April 30, 1945. What makes those days so special?

Eight minutes.

I say, "How would you try again if you're dead? Blown up. Gone. Ashes."

"Like I said, you won't die." He's going around in circles. My head hurts. I don't even attempt to comprehend his riddles. He picks up the gun that had skidded across the floor. "We won't die." He holds the gun to his head, from my distance, I can see that the safety is off. His finger is on the trigger.

Seven minutes to take off.

"Don't!" I yell, frantic now, "Please, _James_, don't!" Funny, how when you're tied up and helpless, the fear that surges through you when something causes you to panic, your heart skips a beat, breath caught, time stands still.

Six. Five. Seven. Six.

These parallel universes, wormholes, string theory, all that crap about time and space – you spend your whole life researching, trying to understand and yet you know nothing. Knowledge might be empowering, but it isn't power, not really. Experience is power; first hand experience is the only thing that counts.

At that moment, I'm suspended in a void. Some people say that when you die, you see your life flash before your eyes. It doesn't, trust me, I know. All that happens is, scarily enough, absolutely nothing. Everything stops, in that split second that spans on like an eternity.

See also: Limbo

See also: Neural oscillation

See also: Intermediate state

Sometimes, death is the best thing life has to offer.

"You know I hate people calling me that," he says. I suck in a deep breath because it feels like I'm suffocating. My throat dry, I choke and heave. Sitting in that office chair, unmoving, puking would be the most ironic thing ever.

He says he hates it, he doesn't.

I have come to learn many things from this man before me, but what I've come to realize the most after much time spent with him, is that hate is a synonym for love. Like I said, it's all about perception.


	2. Strange Beginnings

A/N: okay, so as some of you may know (or not) Bloodstained Shirts has mysteriously disappeared from this site, and I have no idea why either (it happened to me with one of my other stories on another account as well, I guess this site just hates me) but I posted it up on livejournal so you guys could go back and read it if you want. Sorry about that. It can be found here - www . deathbyacid . livejournal . com

Once again, no beta all mistakes are my own, reviews are greatly appreciated.

* * *

"It's going to be fine" – when they tell you those words, you know you're fucked. For 10 years I've been in the army, 10 long years. March 18, I'll never forget that day. You shouldn't stick to one thing for too long, you get too attached and when that thing disappears from your life, you're just thrown out into the world scared and alone. I'll never forget the day when the army threw me out. Punished me for something I didn't do.

I should have known then, that was a sign for me to give up. Sometimes, you need to know when to show the white flag. Sometimes, that hurts less.

"It's going to be fine" – when you start telling yourself those words, you're beyond fucked. Other people lying to you is one thing, you lying to yourself is another. Everyone in the world does it though; you can't help but think it's some sort of human defect.

Today, it's Thursday. And Thursday means its anger management. It's those sort of support group things, you know, where you don't have to pay, you eat for free and a volunteer from some help group talks to people who chooses to be there. If you ask me, no one _chooses _to be in an anger management group.

I'm the first one there, I'm always the first. I come right after work and I sit there for exactly 30 minutes till the people start coming in. The chairs are already laid out, food spread on the table in the far corner. The lady that holds these meetings, Katherine, she always sits right outside the door to welcome any new comers.

I come here from Wednesday to Sunday because there are no meetings on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday it's for cancer. Thursday it's this. Friday, lupus. Saturday, alcoholics. Sunday, now Sunday is special. You get all kinds of nutjobs on Sunday, people with family problems, money, health, anything. They come here in a group, cry about their lives to each other and then they go home to wait for the next week to do it again.

"Cat," I call her – she thinks its Kat with a 'K' but really, I mean Kat with a 'C', have you _seen _those nails of hers? – she looks at me from behind the big front doors where she's sitting. "Are you free for dinner tonight?"

She gives me a look which I can't quite understand; she's sitting too far away. "You know I'm married," she holds up her hand with the ring on it just for emphasis. I nod, say, "Well yeah, that's not what I meant. Like, dinner, with a friend."

"Sorry sweetie, I promised my daughter I'd take her out to dinner tonight, how about next week?" She says that, next week, she always forgets. I wonder, if she's just doing this on purpose. I wonder if she's really here to help us, or to help herself.

Monday night, I can't sleep, I'm up all night fiddling with my rifle, polishing it, changing some parts, polishing it again, changing the parts back. Tuesday night, it's worse. I drive by to the old military warehouse, of course, they've cleared everything, but I sit there in my car all night till the sun rises then I leave for work.

Work is horrible. I'm bad at working with anything that isn't a gun, that's why I signed up for the military in the first place. But well, beggars can't be choosers. I'm a security guard down at the supermarket in Harvard lane, they give you a pistol, but it isn't loaded, and you aren't allowed to shoot anyone, because, well, duh.

"Hello there," I hear Cat's voice and I look towards my watch. 10 minutes passed since I arrived, no one's here this early. "You must be new," she says – of course. I peer out the door, curious. A guy dressed in a suit, sunglasses tugged snugly in his jet black hair – we don't get a lot of those around here, in fact, we don't get rich people here at all.

All we get is fat, balding men and wrinkled up old ladies, the occasional wanna be gangster and a few pot heads.

He must be rich, if my assumption's right and that lime green Lamborghini Gallardo parked outside is his – which, of course it is, I haven't seen that car here before.

"Sebastian," Cat calls and I stand up as she brings the new guy over to introduce us. "This is James – James, this is Sebastian." We shake hands and that's about it, his cell phone rings right after and after a glance at the caller ID, he excuses himself to answer it.

He doesn't come back till the room is filled with the regular people who're always here. Cat goes through the introductions but he doesn't seem to pay much attention. Douchebag, I think, don't realize I'm glaring at him until he catches me looking and quirks his eyebrow up in response.

I look away immediately, my face growing hot. 'Has no one ever told you it's rude to stare?' I remind myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He doesn't share much throughout the entire session, which was pretty normal, since no first timers really open up immediately. And I don't share either because I don't have anger management issues, Cat knows as much, knows that I'm just here because I need to get away from it all. I wonder if she pities me, I wonder if that's why she doesn't want to go out with me for dinner.

I don't see James during the break, must be another phone call. When it reaches the part where everyone just cries and hugs and lets go, the part that I'm here for, James isn't there either. Tonight, I'm crying on the shoulders of Cheesecake – she's this blonde girl that works in a cheesecake factory near by, figures. I don't remember people by their name anymore. Nicknames are the best, nicknames detach you from them, makes you forget that they're human. That you're human. I try to think up one for James – the words Douchebag, Asshole and Bastard come to mind. Then there's Green Lamborghini – I like that one.

When the session ends an hour and a half later, Green Lamborghini leaves before anyone else does.

MMMMM

I'm walking home, I always walk home after these group sessions, my pay barely gives me enough to scrape by as it is, besides, my apartment is nearby, sort of. Only thing was, its raining, has been halfway through the session and I don't have an umbrella. I tug the collar of my leather jacket upwards and zip it up all the way, my hands are starting to shiver, I can't afford a sick day – don't get paid if I don't turn up.

A car engine growls loud beside me, but it doesn't zoom past, it's moving at my pace so I turn around to have a look. I get a face full of green and I stop in my tracks, the window winds down and James yells, "What are you waiting for? Get inside."

If it was any other day, I'd decline a ride from someone I barely know, but its not like I had much of a choice. I slip into the car, and thank God for the heater, the shivering subsides fast enough.

I'm not much of a religious person, but when you're kicked out like you're nothing, left to rot and die alone, you need something to believe in. God gives me strength, and believing in something never hurt any body, right?

"Thanks," I say, rubbing my hands together, I realize I haven't told him where to drop me off yet but he's already driving. "Uhm, it's East Lane, down 5 blocks." James doesn't reply, he just nods, like he already knows where to go. Which is odd, considering I just met him today, I shrug it off as coincidence that he's driving down the right road.

MMMMM

I don't see a green Lamborghini on Lupus night, so okay, he's not a tourist like me. I start to wonder about what issues he's been having that causes him to go to anger management, start to wonder where he's working at, what he's working as to be able to afford all those things. Then I pause, and I start to wonder, why, did I want to see him here tonight?

We didn't talk through the ride back to my place, which was awkward, considering I kept fidgeting on the seat and he's just staring straight down the road.

They say curiosity killed the cat, well; sometimes it's hard to not be curious.

MMMMM

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"Money is the root of all evil."

"Rich and powerful people are bastards."

These sentences are only used by the people who are the direct opposite – the poor, the ugly, the pathetic. Funny isn't it, how they try to console themselves by saying that the other is bad – sex is a sin, the Christians say. I wonder if they just say that because they can't get laid.

You try to tell yourself that it's fine, convince yourself that you're better off without something but of course, you're always wrong. See, instincts override anything else; it's all part of nature.

Do you know why men are attracted to a healthily shaped female with large breasts? Its instincts. They say it looks good and they don't know _why _they think it does but I'm here to tell you that it's all Mother Nature's fault. See, there's such a thing as natural selection. The male wants a female that can care for their child well, to make sure the child survives, he chooses the best looking and the fittest of the lot.

Today, it's the AA meeting. People are usually off work Saturdays but I'm here, guarding the same door I've been guarding for a year – no one's tried to steal a thing. People get a good look at my body and they shun away, instincts, I remind myself that they're not doing that on purpose.

See, I've got a couple of scars from my time in the army. They might have let me go but you can't take away some things, and why is it always the bad ones that remain? This large gash on my left arm? Projectile thrown awry by a grenade. These tiny cuts that just won't seem to heal? Barb wires. These burn marks on both my palms? Napalm – oh, the irony. Beneath my shirt, there's more, and unlike everyone else in this seething heat, I'm grateful that I'm forced to wear long pants.

The intercom blares like a thousand bees hovering right beside my ear, "Mr. Rogan please proceed to aisle 6, I repeat, Mr. Rogan please proceed to aisle 6."

I push myself off the wall I was leaning against, hand clutching the useless pistol dangling from the holster on my hip, making my way to aisle 6. These are the things that they don't teach you in school, these are the things that you should know but you _don't. _They don't tell you, because they don't want you to panic. They don't tell you, because they don't want to risk not being able to apprehend the person.

Mr. Rogan is code for 'unarmed civilian stealing items'. That's not so bad, in fact, that's the least worrying. When you hear Madam Whitmore, get out of there, and get out fast. That's code for 'someone has a fucking gun'.

I get there and I stop dead in my tracks, Green Lamborghini is picking items off the shelf and stuffing it into his bag, he turns and grins when he sees me. "What-"

He cuts me off, "Knew you'd come. Couldn't talk to you during office hours what with all these cameras around, wouldn't want you to lose your job now, do we?"

"How'd you know I'm working here?"

"I know a lot of things you don't, 'Bastian," he says, takes a step closer to me, hands me some items he took off the shelf. "Smile for the cameras, would you?"

I grab his shirt and slam him towards the nearest flat shelf, "What the fuck do you want from me?"

"Woah, woah, are you permitted to use violence?" When I don't reply, he holds his hands up in mock surrender, "Alright, you want to know what's going on, skip the AA meeting, meet me in Lot 5, you know, those warehouses."

"Why should I trust you? Heck, why would I even go there?"

He gives me a lop-sided smile, barring his teeth, "If you want to continue your life going to therapy sessions full of pathetic people, it's your choice, meet me, or don't." He spits out the last word, shoves my hand off him and walks away. I'm left standing there like an idiot with boxes of cereal surrounding me on the ground from when I slammed him into the shelf. I curse under my breath, gingerly putting box by box back where it belongs.

MMMMM

So I skipped the AA meeting, all those free food, those poor sobbing alcoholics and for what? I'm standing outside a large warehouse with graffiti scribbled all over it and no Green Lamborghini in sight. The words 'Lot 5' sprayed in big bold red letters, I'm pretty sure I'm at the right place.

"He was just fucking with you, dumbass," I throw the cigarette I was smoking onto the floor, snubbing it out with my boot. "Way to waste your fuckin' time…"

I get out my car keys, was just about to open the door when a hand is placed on my shoulder. I spin around so fast that I almost fell over.

"Hello, 'Bastian, glad you could make it."


End file.
